


cruel intentions

by thesurielships



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Badass, F/M, Mafia AU, tw: rape mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:42:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27714251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesurielships/pseuds/thesurielships
Summary: There was only one rule holding the tedious peace between the power hungry Eight: never kill each other.Yet, Tamlin Rosetool is now dead.Drowned in a pool of his own blood, they say.All the fingers point at Feyre.Fiancée turned murderess, they whisper.Feyre lets them. She has commited the perfect crime. They will never find proof.There is only one problem. Her lover from another lifetime and current nemesis knows.What can possibly go wrong?
Relationships: Feyre Archeron & Rhysand, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Comments: 32
Kudos: 70





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> tw: rape mention (it's very brief, no description whatsoever), also mention of murder? for a mafia au, this is pretty tame tbh

“Tamlin Rosetool is dead.”

Feyre kept her face blank and her eyes trained on the sun sculpture hanging on the wall.

“We suspect foul play.”

Tarquin snorted. “Suspect? Of course he was killed. The asshole had it coming.”

Beron cocked an eyebrow. “Careful, boss of Summer. You’re acting suspicious.”

He rolled his eyes. “By the Cauldron, what is this, the Supreme Court of justice? We’re all criminals here. It’s what we do.”

“Still,” Thesan cleared his throat and Tarquin immediately quieted. “He was one of us. Whoever did this broke the one rule that’s keeping the peace in this city.”

“Peace?” exclaimed Helion. “Just last week I lost three people because of one of the Spring’s attack. They’ve been invading our turf for months, stealing our contraband and pillaging our coffers. Spring was way out of line.”

“It’s true,” Tarquin nodded. “Tamlin never knew how to respect the boundaries between the turfs.”

“A Spring raped one of our new recruits,” Kallias said, his voice low.

The room stilled.

“That’s a bold accusation,” Beron remarked. “Do you –“

“I confronted him,” Kallias went on, ignoring him. “He denied it, at first. Then he said she had asked for it. Her skirt was too short.”

A pregnant silent reigned for a few moments.

It made Feyre inexplicably proud that these ruthless mafia bosses wouldn’t even blink at robbery and murder, but always drew the line at sexual abuse.

Some of them, anyway.

Beron cleared his throat obnoxiously loud. “You’re being awfully quiet tonight, Archeron.”

She cocked a brow. “Would you have preferred to see me weep?”

His grin was malicious. “That’s what I would expect from a woman whose fiancé was just murdered.”

“Then you must not know many women,” she replied blankly, reveling in the angry flush that rose to his cheeks.

“You bitch –“

“Quiet,” murmured Thesan. His eyes bored into hers. “I’m sorry. Maybe it’s too soon for you to attend such a meeting –“

“I’m fine,” she interrupted. “I want to catch the murderer more than any of you.”

He nodded in understanding. She could feel feel Rhysand’s heavy stare like a brand on her skin as she offered him a grateful smile.

“We haven’t heard from you tonight, either,” Thesan asked him. The entire room pinned him with a suspicious gaze. It was no secret that Spring and Night had a long history of bad blood.

Rhysand paused for a moment, letting the suspense build, the overdramatic prick.

Feyre’s heart was beating a riot in her chest. Cold sweat trickled down her back, dampened her armpits. She held her breath, waiting, waiting, keeping her face blank and uninterested like her life depended on it.

Which it did.

He finally shrugged. “I hope he rots in Hell.”

It was so unexpected that Feyre snorted, then quickly covered it up with a cough.

Rhysand’s eyes twinkled at her from across the table.

“Okay,” Thesan sighed. “Let’s wrap this up, shall we? Beron will be in charge of the investigation. The murderer will be killed in return. Enjoy your dinner.”

“Oh good,” sighed Tarquin. “This conversation was making me hungry.”

***

It was one of the Eight’s agreement that only the bosses attend their meetings. But now, after they had finished their feast of a dinner in honor of their dear dead friend and colleague – Feyre inwardly rolled her eyes – their second-in-commands been welcomed back into Thesan’s huge mansion.

Music was blaring through the speakers, wine was flowing generously, and it would have been a pleasant party if Feyre’s heart wasn’t one too fast beat away from giving out.

She quickly surveyed the room. Beron was rambling about something stupid in a corner, surrounded by his six sons (because he had six second-in-commands, naturally). Kallias and Viviane were dancing in the middle of the room like nobody was watching. Tarquin and Helion were in a drinking match, much to the consternation of Varian and Sunny. Thesan was nowhere to be found, as usual. Though he was usually the host of their gatherings, he hated parties and tended to excuse himself well before dinner was over.

Alis and Lucien were standing by themselves against a wall, somber and worse for wear.

She avoided their eyes as she made her way to the one person she dreaded talking to.

Rhysand was perched in a couch in front of the floor to ceiling windows, a glass of brandy in his hand.

She didn’t know where Amren was, and Nesta had disappeared as soon as she’d come in, so she decided to seize this rare opportunity when they both weren’t flanked by overbearing seconds.

“Mourning your best friend, Rhysand?”

“What shall I ever do without him?” he asked wryly and drank deeply from his glass before finally meeting her eyes. “I’m sorry, am I occupying your mourning spot?”

Feyre’s smile was a death threat. “Follow me.”

She expected him to resist, or at least be difficult about it. But he simply stood, his smirk ever so playful as he gestured for her to lead the way.

She took him to the balcony on the second floor that no one ever bothered using because it was in the back of the house, and the best view of the city was on the other side. It was Feyre’s favorite place here, both for the privacy and the spectacular view of the night sky. She couldn’t explain it, but the stars always seemed closest here.

Rhysand leaned against the railing, his eyes fixed on her.

She took a deep breath, bracing herself. “What do you want?”

One dark eyebrow rose.

She rolled her eyes. “Cut the crap, Rhysand. We both know you saw me.”

“Not many people know this about me, but I’m actually severely short sighted.”

“Bullshit,” Feyre scoffed. “I once saw you shoot a man in the heart from 500 meters away. You know I killed him.”

That insufferable smirk finally dropped off his face. He shrugged. “I’m sure he deserved it.”

“He did,” she nodded in agreement. “But you’ve never been a stickler for justice, have you, Rhysand?”

His eyes flashed and before she knew what was happening, she was pinned against the wall, her wrists above her head.

“Do you want me to report you, Feyre darling?” he whispered, his breath fanning across her cheek.

She reigned in her shiver. “I don’t do debts, least of all with you.”

He chuckled darkly, his thumb drawing deceptively soothing circles into the skin on the inside of her wrist. “Beggars can’t be choosers.” He leaned even closer, and his chest brushed hers. His citrus smell invaded her senses, and dread bloomed in the pit of her gut. “You should know that, shouldn’t you?”

His implication was a slap across the face. She struggled against his hold and was briefly surprised when he let her jerk her hands away. “That was low,” she seethed. “Even for you.”

“Is anything too low for the Beggar’s Daughter?”

Her hand flew toward his face, and it was all she could do to stop it before it made contact. Instead, she caressed his cheek, battling the nausea rising inside her at the memories that sprung to her mind. That his eyes were reflecting back at her.

“Does looking down on me because of my past help you sleep at night, Rhys?” she purred the nickname and his pupils flared. “Does it help you cope with the fact that I left you?”

His mouth opened and closed. A myriad of emotions were waging a war in his eyes, and she watched, riveted, waiting for the outcome.

Reason, she supposed, won as he retreated a step.

“We’re even,” he simply said before storming away.

Feyre wanted to believe him, she desperately did.

But when your nemesis witnesses you murdering your fiancé and covers for you, lowering your guard is the most foolish thing you can do.


	2. Chapter 2

"Who is it?"

"I'm your second in command, not your fucking dog," Nesta grumbled from her perch in the couch, her nose deep in her latest paranormal romance obsession.

"Nesta, please. I'm on my period."

Feyre summoned her best puppy eyes, though she knew those would never work against her heartless sister.

"I want to ride Stardust."

Feyre's mouth popped open. "No way."

Nesta shrugged, changing position so she would be more comfortable.

A wave of blood rushed out of Feyre and she stifled a wince.

"How about Jasmine?"

"Jasmine is your guilty pleasure. She's otherwise useless."

"She is not. She has won half the races she's been in."

"Amazing," Nesta said, sarcasm oozing from her voice.

"I'll buy you a knife?"

Nesta finally lifted her eyes from her book. "You're still so fucking protective of that horse."

"Two knives."

Her sister took a second to consider.

"I want a gun. Like the one Cassian of Night has. The bastard has a better collection than me."

"Deal," Feyre said hurriedly. "Now open the damn door."

Nesta made a show of putting her book down and stretching every muscle in her body, before standing up and cracking every joint.

The bell was now blaring non stop and Feyre's ears were bleeding just as much as her uterus.

She was going to die of multiple haemorrhage points.

Damn, she had always wanted to die on the battlefield. In one of the twisted alleys of Prythian that she loved so much. Maybe, if she was lucky, she would shot under the stars so they could bear witness forever.

"It's Alis!" Nesta shouted from the door.

Feyre’s heart dropped. "Let her in," she shouted back.

She tried to make herself look more respectable with her messy bun and warm pajamas, summoning dignity and authority in her blanket cocoon on the couch.

Alis finally appeared, and she took a moment to see what the only friend she'd had at one point in her life had become. She had lost so much weight, her shoulders were slumped and she had a weariness about her that no sleep could cure. Her dark circles drooped halfway to her cheeks, and her once rich and vibrant skin was now sallow.

Feyre swallowed against the knot in her throat.

"Hello," Alis said, the steady strength of her voice at odds with her appearance.

Feyre nodded in acknowledgement and gestured to the armchair across from her. "Please, take a seat. Would you like tea? Coffee?"

Alis remained standing. "Nothing, thank you."

Feyre tried to smile. "So, what brings to this humble place?"

"Feyre, I know you did it."

"Did what?"

"I know you killed him. You never loved him anyway."

Feyre straightened her spine even as she struggled to draw in a full breath. "That's a bold accusation to make without proof, Alis of Spring."

Alis didn't react to her boss voice, regarding her with her weary eyes and a small, defeated smile. "I'm not going to report you."

Feyre held her breath.

"But Lucien might."

"I suppose I should thank you for the warning," she declared, her voice hard. "As unnecessary and misplaced as it is."

Alis merely nodded. "Take care of yourself, Feyre."

She turned and stopped a few steps away.

"Don't let them break you, too."

Then she was gone, the ominous warning ringing in Feyre’s ears.

"So," Nesta perched on the arm of her couch, "that was fun."

Feyre ignored her, still chilled by Alis's parting words.

"So," Nesta repeated, and this time her tone was careful, probing. "Did you do it?"

Feyre leveled her with a hard look. "What do you think?"

Nesta stared at her for a moment, her eyes so much like their mother's that she lost sense of space and time, feeling like a helpless child for one long second.

"I think he deserved it," she finally said. "I think that you are my sister, and my boss, and I will stand by you no matter what."

Feyre breathed through her nose to stop her tears from falling. "Thank you."

Nesta shrugged, opening the window, already done with the conversation. "Hey, Elain," she called. "What're you growing there?"

Her reply was too quiet for Feyre to hear.

"What are they for?" Nesta bellowed back, then roared a laugh at whatever Elain said.

"What is it?" asked Feyre, her curiosity peaked.

"She's growing poisonous flowers," Nesta said with a terrifying grin.

Feyre smiled back. "We taught her well."


	3. Chapter 3

Feyre woke up with a scream lodged in her throat.

She focused on her surroundings, willing her heart to slow its attack on her ribcage; her mother’s painting hanging on the powder blue walls, the white curtains billowing in the gentle breeze, the night sky painted on the ceiling.

She inhaled a shaky breath, choking on it when her door flew open.

Nesta and Elain rushed in, both carrying guns. They meticulously inspected the room for an intruder, lifting every pillow and opening every drawer.

“Nesta,” Feyre rasped out. “Why are you naked?”

“Priorities,” her sister grumbled as she checked behind the curtains.

“She likes to sleep naked,” Elain answered matter-of-factly as she inspected Feyre’s coat closet. “Sleep walk naked, too.”

“That was one time.” Nesta’s voice was muffled as she went into the adjoining bathroom.

“Girls,” Feyre finally sighed. “There is no one.”

Nesta rushed back towards her, arms raised in disbelief.

“Was I screaming?”

Her sister glared. “Like the house was on fire.”

Feyre managed a small smile. “Sorry I woke you up.”

“Do you want some lemon balm tea?” Elain asked as she carefully put everything back in place.

“Please?”

She nodded and headed out.

Nesta leaned against the wall, her arms crossed and her sharp eyes assessing her no doubt sweaty and pale sister. “You need to go to therapy.”

“For the love of all the gods, Nesta,” Feyre groaned as she slumped back into her pillows. “You tell me that if I even blink wrong. I don’t want to see that crazy doctor of yours.”

“It helps.”

She sighed. “I know.”

“When our parents died,” Nesta said quietly, “it was the only thing that kept my head above water.” She swallowed audibly. “I don’t think I would be who I am today without it.”

Feyre didn’t answer.

“If you ever feel ready, I will be happy to accompany you,” Nesta finally stated, her voice uncharacteristically gentle before she pushed off the wall.

Feyre let out another deep sigh. “Stop tempting fate,” her mother’s voice chastised in her head. She reluctantly climbed out of bed, put on her robe and padded to the kitchen where a mug of her favorite tea was waiting on the counter. She grabbed it and went to the library. She wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight, anyway.

***

The next morning found the three Archeron sisters in the heart of Spring’s territory.

Nesta and Elain were standing at the door, the picture of boredom and nonchalance. Feyre drew her shoulders back, straightened her spine and summoned an uninterested smirk.

“Well, well, well,” Lucien drawled as he leaned back in his desk chair, a cigar dangling off his fingers. “Look who finally came to pay their respect.”

Feyre raised her chin. “Respect? I received no condolences, either.”

“Condolences?”

“I know you’ve always liked to pretend I wasn’t there, but I was still his fiancée.”

“Turned murderess.”

Lucien extinguished his cigar on the spotless cedar desk, leaving a mark. Feyre could almost hear Tamlin rolling in his grave.

He prowled around his desk, his every step deliberately slow. He stopped one foot away from Feyre, his amber eyes glowing with hatred.

Nesta and Elain stepped forward, arms going to their guns, but Feyre raised a hand and they retreated back.

“I could kill you right now,” Lucien’s voice was husky, seductive.

Feyre took one step closer. “And risk the wrath of the Eight?” she purred.

He laughed softly. “What wrath? I would be carrying out punishment on their behalf.”

She raised a brow. “On what grounds?”

“Don’t play dumb, Feyre.”

“Dumb is the only language you speak, Vanserra. I’m just trying to communicate here.”

His nostrils flared. “The night he was stabbed, he was going out to meet you.”

Well, shit.

Feyre shrugged. “He never made it to me.”

“You –”

“You know, Lucien, your eagerness to pin the blame on me is getting suspicious. For all we know, you’re the one who did it. You sure had enough reasons to.”

He bristled. “Bullshit.”

“Is it?” she tilted her head, holding back a smirk. “Look at you now. You’re better off without him. The boss of Spring instead of an obedient second. How does it feel, Lucien, to not have to bow your head anymore? Has the power gotten to your head yet?”

“Spinning tales was always your specialty, Beggar’s Daughter.” He shook his head. “But not this time. The truth will come out.”

She smiled. “You bet it will.”

She held his gaze for one long heartbeat, defying him to knock her down.

His eyes only promised blood.

He opened his mouth but she sauntered out of the room, her sisters on her heels before he could dismiss her.

***

“That son of a bitch,” she cursed as she stomped out of their territory. “Tamlin’s loyal dog to the bitter end.”

Her rage was a living thing roiling in her gut and writhing beneath her skin.

“Therapy,” Nesta whispered in a sing song voice.

Feyre stopped short. “You can go now.”

“We’re still in Autumn’s,” Elain said quietly. “I’m not sure that’s wise.”

“I don’t care.”

“Are you so eager to join your loverboy in the afterlife?” Nesta snapped.

“I can fend for myself.”

Nesta snorted.

“Of course,” Elain reassured her. “But three is always better than one.”

“Fine,” Feyre sighed. “But only until we’re in Archeron grounds.”

She continued towards her own version of therapy: Rita’s shooting range, conveniently placed at the junction of Night and Archeron. She prayed she wouldn’t find anyone of Night there.

Her prayers, however, went unheeded. She quickly found that out as she pounded her way to her favorite box, immediately next to none other than Rhysand fucking Starfall.

She grinded her teeth as she pulled the safety off her gun and took her first shot. Right in the heart of the moving dummy.

“Nice,” Rhysand purred.

She peeked into his own range. Naturally, he had hit every bulls eye, multiple times if the size of the holes were any indication.

“Show off,” she mumbled under her breath as she pulled the safety off again – Rita had those boringly secure guns that automatically got their safety on after every shot – and aimed at the dummy’s head, then its eye, then its other eye, then his mouth, his shoulders, each of his lungs –

Rhysand let out a low whistle. “Does sticking your ass out help your precision?”

She didn’t bother looking at him, shooting her way down to the dummy’s groin. “Please, do stare at my ass while I have a gun in my hand.”

“You would never shoot me.”

Feyre met his eyes. They were shining unfairly bright in the late morning sun. His black shirt was clinging to every muscle and her mouth went dry at the defined biceps, the firm pecs, the veined forearms exposed by the rolled up sleeves…

His smug chuckle made her snap her gaze back to his. Before she could think twice, she pointed the gun at his head, effectively shutting him up. “What makes you think so?”

“I trust you, Feyre darling.”

The words he had told her on a different night, in what felt like another lifetime.

She pulled the safety off her gun.

He cocked a brow.

Feyre knew he could shoot her faster than she could fire at him. Yet his only defense was a smirk that made her see red.

She pulled the trigger.

The bullet whizzed past his ear and lodged itself in the wooden pillar behind him.

They both knew she hadn’t missed.

“You owe me,” she said as she finally lowered her gun.

“I thought you didn’t do debts, especially not with me.”

She smirked as she turned back to the dummies. “But you’re so much more useful when you’re indebted to me.”


	4. Chapter 4

It was a beautiful day for riding.

It had rained the previous night, so the earth was exactly as damp as Stardust liked it and the scent of wet dirt permeated the air. An invigorating breeze set the soft, fluffy clouds afloat in the clear blue sky.

Feyre smiled as she felt the sun on her skin. She closed her eyes and let go of Stardust’s reins, spreading her arms wide and inhaling deeply.

“Show off,” shouted Nesta as her mount struggled to keep up with them.

Judging from the sound of the new horse’s hooves pounding on the ground, they were about two hundred meters away.

Too close.

Feyre smirked as she leaned forward and rose out of her saddle.

“Don’t –”

“Iyah!” she screamed in glee as she squeezed her thighs and Stardust shot forward, racing with the wind.

“You said no gallop,” Nesta snapped from behind her.

Somewhere far in the distance, Elain yelped as Jasmine no doubt spotted some kind of bug or worm and reared back.

Feyre laughed and whispered ‘faster’ into her mount’s ear.

***

Feyre was still laughing as they guided their horses to their respective stalls. When they entered the huge stable, she felt an all too familiar rush of pride and joy.

She had been the one to found Fallarc, her family’s new business of training horses for all kinds of races. They had accumulated quite the collection over the years. Every horse had its own particularities, skills and preferences. Some were better at racing on wet ground, others on dry dirt. Some could carry double their weight, while others could barely be convinced to wear a saddle.

All of them were steady, strong horses with consistent performances.

Perfect betting choices.

“No way that horse has anything to do with the stars,” Nesta grumbled as she shut the stall. “It came straight from Hell, I’d bet my arm on it.”

Feyre suppressed a smile. “Not your soul?”

Her sister glared at her. “Why do I always get the new ones?”

“I thought you liked taming the wild ones,” she replied with her best impression of wide-eyed innocence.

Nesta’s all-suffering groan was belied by the slight curving of her lips. “Not horses.”

“Dogs,” Elain nodded sagely.

By the time they got home, Feyre’s sides were aching with laughter, Nesta was trying to discreetly wipe her tears, and Elain was as befuddled and serene as ever.

The sight that greeted them on their doorstep wiped the smiles off their faces.

While Nesta and Elain reached for their guns, Feyre donned her favorite mask. “And here I was thinking today was unseasonably chilly,” she drawled as she stopped a few feet away from Beron and his six leering sons.

They stiffened. The Autumn gang were awfully prickly about these kinds of jokes.

“Don’t tell me you’re giving me the cold shoulder after you all but ambushed me at my door.”

Eris opened his mouth to speak.

“Are you guys migrating together? Away from the family nest, into unknown, faraway lands? It is the Prythianian dream.”

“The way you’re going at it, you’d think you get one coin for every word you speak,” Eris sniggered. “The apple sure doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Feyre dropped her cheery charade and glared at him. She knew without looking that her sisters had their guns pointed at his head.

“Now, now,” Beron waved his arms around to defuse the situation, though his eyes gleamed with cruel amusement. “We’re here on official business, Archeron.”

Her eyes were still on Eris, her jaw locked.

“It’s about our investigation,” the boss of Autumn stated hurriedly. “You have to cooperate.”

She promised bloody murder to his son for one moment longer before she gestured to her door. “Let’s discuss the death of my fiancé over elevenses, shall we?”

***

“Let me cut straight to the chase,” Beron said after he had all but emptied her pantry of pastries and sweetmeats – Nesta’s eyes shooting daggers every time he reached for the plate – and had drunk his way through a good third of her cellar – Elain swearing quietly in what sounded like latin with every gulp he took.

Ignoring the murderous waves radiating from behind her, Feyre kept her countenance neutral, if not pleasant, as Beron reclined on the armchair and crossed his legs.

His sons were a standing wall of hateful sneers and judgmental smirks. They hadn’t eaten a thing. They were full, they had claimed. Of shit, Feyre had wanted to say.

“Present evidence points towards you, Feyre.”

She took a slow sip of her tea, enjoyed the flavorful fusion of passionflower and kava that was her sister’s latest invention for a moment, before she swallowed with a small hum of appreciation.

“What evidence?” she finally asked.

“Don’t play dumb, girl.”

The apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree, Feyre thought wryly, reminded of a similar conversation she’d had only a few days ago.

“You had the motive and the means.”

She rolled her hand in a gesture for him to elaborate, meanwhile carefully cutting a hearty slice of chocolate cake. It would complement the tea nicely.

“He was your fiancé – ”

“I am aware.”

Beron went on, unfazed. “One of his terms for marrying you were that you give up your territory. Merge with Spring, so you could rule side by side.”

That wasn’t exactly it. Tamlin would die before he let someone rule by his side, as his equal.

And he did, she thought with smug satisfaction.

She, however, didn’t bother correcting him. She wasn’t falling for a corny trick that showed up in every detective book ever.

“Something like that,” she nodded.

Beron’s mouth contorted in what was surely an attempt at a reassuring smile. “You had… arguments. Big ones. Frequently.”

“We did,” she agreed. Her interrogator’s eyes lit up. “But the make-up sex was worth it.”

He exhaled through his nose. Once. Twice.

“Feyre,” he finally said. He waited for her to bite into her cake and lick the chocolate off her fingers so she could meet his eyes. “We know he was going to see you.”

“You wound me, Beron.”

“Now, I’m not saying –”

“If I wanted to kill someone, I wouldn’t arrange a meeting with him beforehand, would I? Give me some credit, will you? As your equal,” she finished with a saccharine smile.

He gritted his teeth. She hoped he would choke on their dust.

“Tell me this, Vanserra. What is the presumed hour of death?”

He hesitated. “Half past eleven.”

She barked out a laugh, so sudden that the Autumn gang flinched.

“What?”

“But Beron,” she wiped a stray tear off her cheek. “I was still at Thesan’s party then.”

“You…” he narrowed his eyes suspiciously, “you were?”

She nodded. “I don’t suppose you’ll take my word for it.”

He stood, crumbs dropping off his pants and outspreading on the carpet.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” he said, his tone flat.

“Anything for my late fiancé, Cauldron save him.”

“Mother hold him,” they all replied monotonously.

They left without saying goodbye.

Before Feyre could even sigh, a knock sounded behind the wall to her study.

She stood, suddenly alert. One look from her had her sisters running out. They would stand vigil at the foot of the stairs until she was done.

“What is it?” she asked as she pushed the door open.

The Suriel – her code name, of course; no one in the spy business went by their real name – executed a quick, flawless bow. “Suriel, reporting for duty.”

Feyre rolled her eyes. Her spy never seemed to decide whether she was a seventeenth century courtier or a soldier.

“The only real evidence Beron has against you is the alleged appointment. Fed, naturally, by Lucien.”

Feyre threw herself into her comfortable desk chair. “I knew that fox was in his head.”

“They found the weapon of the crime,” the Suriel continued.

Feyre frowned. “Weapon?”

“The knife,” the spy supplied.

What?

‘The night Tamlin was stabbed,’ Lucien had said. She had been so caught up in their conversation that she hadn’t even noticed.

Tamlin had been stabbed.

It wasn’t her poison that killed him.

How disappointing.

“Beron didn’t mention that.”

The Suriel nodded grimly. “He thinks you two are working together.”

“Us two?”

“You and Rhysand Starfall.”

Feyre’s heart lurched. “Excuse me?”

“The knife found at the scene had two interlaced half-moons carved into the blade. It is a Night gang heirloom, and there is only one of its kind.”

“I am aware,” she snapped.

“To make matters worse, Starfall retreated early the night of the murder.”

“I still don’t see what any of this has to do with me.”

“You were seen conversing with him at the last meeting, boss. Privately.”

Feyre’s mind flashed back to that night, to Rhys’s chest pressing her against the wall and her hand caressing his cheek. She groaned, running her hands through her hair and thoroughly messing it up.

The Suriel winced. “There is one more thing.”

“There is more?”

“I doubt the alibi you gave Beron will work.”

“But it’s the truth?” Her statement ended in a question. All this new information was making her dizzy.

“It is highly unlikely anyone saw you at the party after Tamlin left,” the spy said, her voice quiet.

“What? But –”

Bloody hell, she had been at that isolated balcony, and had left by the back door.

“Shit.”

“Indeed, boss.”


	5. Chapter 5

Feyre’s lock picking skills were rusty.

That would have been an excellent pun, she mused, if the lock she was working on was the slightest bit tarnished. The fact of the matter was it was a perfect and clever little lock, with an intricate wiring and a spotless iron casing. It was so clean Feyre could see her warped reflection scowling back at her.

She stuck her tongue out at herself and took a deep breath, relaxing both her hands and her mind. The way to a lock’s undoing was, after all, patience.

After multiple other attempts, muffled swears and cajoling words of encouragement, it finally clicked open.

She executed a quick triumphant dance in the deserted alley before she pushed the door. It swung open on well-oiled hinges, as expected.

Her steps were silent on the lush red carpet as she ventured into the back corridor of Velaris, the Night gang’s infamous bar. Her heart was beating so fast she feared it would give her away. All too soon she was greeted by a familiar wooden grinning bat. She traced the contours of the formidable animal carved into the massive door. She could’ve sworn it purred under her touch.

A boisterous laughter sounded in the distance and she jumped, her hand flying to her chest. She pressed her ear against the door, listening for a long moment until she was sure the room was silent.

Then she turned the knob, and entered the private meeting room of the Night gang.

It was as if she had walked into the past. She could see herself lounging on the black armchair by the corner, laughing at whatever ridiculous joke Cassian had said. Mor pouring shots and Amren challenging Azriel to a knife throwing contest. Rhysand lifting her effortlessly and seating himself under her, tucking her close. His fingers caressing her skin and his breath ruffling her hair as he chuckled at the chaos that was their family.

Because that’s what they had been.

A family.

Until she had walked out and left it all behind.

She snapped herself back to reality.

She hadn’t sneaked away from her own home and trespassed into her nemesis’s property to go down memory lane.

She sat at her favorite armchair and knocked four times on the wall, the rhythm coming to her naturally. She hadn’t even finished the fourth when a small window, well hidden in the purple wall, flapped open.

“Drink?” a stranger’s voice asked.

“Devil’s Jizz,” she replied, deepening her voice.

A moment later, a glass was deposited on the window flap. She grabbed it gingerly and it closed up. The smell of her drink was overpowering. She couldn’t remember whose drunken idea it was, or maybe it had been a group effort, to mix whiskey, vodka and rum, with a splash of lemon juice.

“It’s been a while since I smelled that monstrosity,” Rhysand drawled as he closed the door behind him.

She released a relieved breath. She hadn’t been sure he would come.

Feyre raised her glass as if to toast him, before reluctantly setting it down on the low table.

“So, you killed him,” she said without preamble.

He leaned against the door and crossed his arms, his black tunic straining to accommodate his bulging muscles. An amused smirk alighted on his sensuous lips, and his violet eyes gleamed in the low light. “First,” he put up a finger,” you confess to murder. Then,” his middle finger joined his index,” you threaten to commit murder. And now,” his ring finger rose, “you’re accusing me of murder. What’s next,” he twirled his pinky in the air, “suggesting a murder?”

She perked up.

“Feyre, no,” he admonished, even as his smirk grew impossibly wider.

She leaned back in her comfortable armchair, pouting. “Leadership has dulled your edges.”

“And sharpened yours,” he remarked, cocking a brow.

Her answering smile was sharper than a knife.

“Whatever happened to good ol’ Truth-teller?”

Rhysand’s expression instantly shuttered. “Nothing. It remains in a safe, secret place.”

“I never thought you’d ever refer to Tamlin’s guts as a safe place.”

His eyes widened and she let out a low laugh.

“Has Azriel been too busy fucking our sweet Elain to notice?”

It wasn’t everyday she saw Rhysand Starfall speechless, and she relished the small victory.

“Are you here to flaunt The Suriel’s skills?”

A corner of his mouth quirked up as her smile slipped. No one knew who her spy was. How did he –

“Or how you framed me for that tool’s murder?”

Feyre sobered up. “Framed you?”

“You stabbed Tamlin with my knife,” he stated conversationally, as if they were discussing the weather.

Her mouth dropped open. “What?” she sputtered. “You saw me poison him!”

“What?” he repeated. “When –”

Understanding dawned on his face and he burst out laughing. It was so sudden and genuine that it took Feyre by surprise. It had been a while she’d heard him laugh like that.

“Is that what you were doing?” he finally managed to ask, a smile still on his lips.

“What did you think I was doing?” she replied absently, her eyes glued on the hint of a dimple on his left cheek.

“I thought you were adding sugar to his drink.”

That jolted her back to reality. “Why would he want sugar in his wine?”

Rhysand shrugged, struggling to hide a mischievous smirk as he said, “He was known for his eccentric tastes.”

“I would feel offended, but he did propose to his future murderess.”

Rhysand cracked another smile, and Feyre’s heart skipped a beat. She was really beginning to believe that cursed bat had transported her to another dimension.

“I haven’t seen you smile like that in a while,” she blurted.

And just like that, the spell was broken.

The smile dropped off his lips. His warm gaze turned cool and calculating. In the time it took for her to blink, boyish, grinning Rhys was gone. Facing her instead was Rhysand Starfall, the fearsome boss of the Night gang.

Feyre straightened her spine and lifted her chin, a challenging smirk curving her lips. She, too, was a long way from the weak and foolish girl she had once been. She was Feyre Archeron, founder of Fallarc and respected leader of her own gang.

“They’re framing us,” she declared.

One dark brow rose. “You don’t think I killed him myself?”

“You’re not that stupid.”

Surprise flitted across his face. He reached for her glass of Devil’s Jizz and took a generous gulp, which immediately sent him into a coughing fit. His face went an alarming shade of red, he was folded in two as he all but wheezed and contorted in front of her.

Feyre snorted as she realized even he could not pull off a dignified cough.

He pushed the glass back to her, his chest heaving. “Did you poison that, too?”

She smiled. “Should’ve thought of that before.”

“Why,” he coughed again. “Why are you warning me?”

“I told you before. You’re a lot more useful when you’re indebted to me. And this is a debt I intend to collect.”

She lifted the glass to her nostrils and almost gagged. “I’m leaving,” she announced as she stood and pulled the hood of her cloak over her head.

“Of course you are,” Rhysand slurred.

Feyre’s eyes widened. Cauldron, was he already drunk?

“Excuse me?”

His shoulders heaved and slumped. “That’s all you know how to do.”

She stared at the back of his head, completely stunned. Then she turned on her heel and did what he claimed she did best. She left.

She didn’t make it halfway through the corridor when her anger caught up with her and she stormed back, pushing the door so hard it slammed against the wall.

“You don’t get to do this, whatever it is,” she seethed. “You don’t get to blame me for making the decision you didn’t have the balls to make, Rhysand.”

He stood and turned to face her. He was barely standing straight, yet his expression was solemn, his gaze boring into hers. They say the eyes are a window to the soul, and hers were always open for Rhysand to climb through whenever he pleased. His ability to read her was something she used to be grateful for, but now she resented it.

She scowled at him. “The Mother knows you’re better for it. We all are.”

“So you did it for the better good?”

She paused, thinking back to that fateful night. 

The vulnerability. The powerlessness. The despair.

“No,” she finally said. “I did it for myself.”

Rhysand nodded, seemingly satisfied with her answer. 

He didn’t say a word as she walked away.

***

Feyre’s feet had barely landed on the floor of her bedroom when her door swung open, and her sisters barged in.

“What the hell, Feyre?” Nesta shouted in her face. Her nostrils flared. “You started drinking again, didn’t you?”

“No.”

She scoffed. “Don’t lie to me, Fey. You sneaked out in the middle of the night and now you come in reeking of alcohol. What happened to your vow to never drink again?”

“Nesta,” Feyre’s voice was low. The rage that had cooled down on her way home ignited again. “Need I remind you that I am your boss? You don’t –”

“Fuck that,” she screeched. “You don’t get to pull the boss card now. Not when you were fucking drinking.”

Feyre’s jaw locked. “It’s none of your fucking business,” she said quietly.

“None of my business? None of my fucking business?” Nesta’s voice was shrill. “Will it still be none of my fucking business when I find you wasted on the streets, barely fucking coherent? When I watch you drunk off your ass from the crack ass of dawn until the latest hours of the night? It took you months to fucking recover. How could you -”

“She didn’t drink,” Elain announced as she laid a gentle hand on Nesta’s shoulder.

Nesta stopped her tirade and stared at her sister, breathing hard.

“Open your mouth,” ordered Elain.

Feyre gritted her teeth.

“Open,” she repeated with a tone that brooked no discussion.

So Feyre obeyed.

“Smell her breath,” she ordered Nesta, and she did so with a small expression of disgust. “There, are we all on the same page now?”

Nesta shot Feyre one last glare before she stormed off, slamming the door behind her.

Feyre’s ears were ringing. Her head hurt and her heart ached from the scar that Rhysand had just pried wide open. All she wanted was to crawl into her bed and sleep it all off, but she made herself meet Elain’s assessing gaze.

“Rest tonight,” her sister finally said. “We talk tomorrow.”

And Feyre may have been their boss on paper, but at that moment she was just the rebellious youngest sister she had always been.

And a small part of her warmed at them taking care of her like they always did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Horse racing and meetings in bars. Can you tell all my mafia knowledge comes from Peaky Blinders? hahahah


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i honestly don’t like to undermine my writing by saying that it sucks, so i try to refrain from such warnings. but i’ve been in a writing slump lately, and i was worried i’d end up losing my inspiration for this fic, so i figured might as well edit this chapter so i could go on.
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoy! the next chapter is something i’ve been fantasizing about for a while ;)

“Where the fuck were you last night?” Nesta asked as soon as they had cleared their plates.

Feyre made a show of slowly sipping her tea. She was actually surprised her sister had waited until they had eaten breakfast. She’d expected an interrogation at dawn.

But it was past ten, the late morning sun shining unfiltered through the tall, open windows, and their breakfast was more of a brunch. She suspected this had something to do with the gentler one of her sisters, who knew the combination of sleeping in and eating sweet and savory treats was the cure to all and any of Feyre’s heartaches.

“I met Rhysand,” Feyre declared as she set her cup down on the table.

“So you’re telling me,” Nesta said, deathly quiet, “you went into enemy territory, alone, and without telling anyone?”

Feyre lifted her chin. “Yes.”

“And,” her Second carried on conversationally, “you took this huge, incredibly foolish and fucking stupid risk, why?” If her sister pressed her teeth any harder, they would break.

She met her gaze head on. “It was necessary. I couldn’t afford to be seen around Rhysand. Not again.”

One delicate eyebrow rose. “Again?”

The tension in the room grew so thick you could cut it with a knife, the only sound that of Elain refilling each of their cups with their favored beverages: tea for Feyre, hot milk for Nesta, and whiskey on the rocks for herself.

“Well?”

Feyre inhaled deeply. She knew she was being difficult, but she had always found it hard to open up, speak of her failures and share her plans. She was always one to act first, explain never. That had only gotten worse during the time she’d only had herself to rely on. Although she would die for each of her sisters, and knew for a fact they would do the same for her, the words remained lodged in her throat.

Elain’s hand softly alighted on her arm and she almost jumped.

“Feyre,” she began. “It’s only us here.”

“I know.”

When enough time passed and it was clear Elain’s reassurance hadn’t worked, her sweet sister changed gears. “What did you promise us when you rallied our gang and took leadership?”

Feyre swallowed. “Never be weak or powerless again.”

“Or out of the fucking loop,” Nesta grumbled, her arms crossed sulkily.

Feyre attempted humor. “Well if these aren’t the consequences to my own actions.”

Elain tried to smile. Nesta remained unimpressed.

“Someone told Beron I was with Rhysand at the last gang meeting,” she finally said, enunciating each word carefully. The absence of a reaction didn’t fool Feyre into thinking she was in the clear. “I was warning him not to testify against me.”

“How did he know it was you?” Nesta finally asked.

Heat crept up her neck and unfurled on her cheeks. “He didn’t.”

“Wha –”

“Can someone tell me what the flor you’re talking about?” Elain interrupted.

“She killed Tamlin,” Nesta announced unceremoniously, pointing at her.

“I didn’t.”

Nesta frowned. Elain gaped.

“I poisoned Tamlin,” Feyre amended. “Rhysand saw me. I warned him not to say anything about it. Then it turns out Tamlin was stabbed. With Truth teller. And Beron thinks he and I are in on it.”

Silence.

The lack of reaction was beginning to worry her.

“Hasn’t it occurred to you,” Nesta began, voice wary, “that Rhysand might actually be the culprit?”

Feyre shook her head. “He’s not so stupid to kill someone with his heirloom and leave it there for anyone to find.”

“Maybe that was on purpose?” Elain suggested.

Her brows met her hairline.

“To declare war on Spring,” Nesta explained softly. “Again.”

Feyre opened her mouth. Three knocks sounded from her study, which was just as well because she had no idea what she meant to say.

Her sisters stood at once.

She lifted a hand, halting them. She would not keep them in the dark any longer.

“Suriel, you can come in.”

It might have been the first time since they had become their own gang that Feyre saw shock so openly expressed on her sisters’ faces. She hid her smile at their wide eyes, which grew impossibly wider when the Suriel executed a flawless curtsy, a hand to her head in salute. “What a lovely home you have, boss.”

“Cut the crap, Suriel. What is it?”

The spy deposited a black envelope on the table.

The Archeron sisters stared at the two intertwined crescents at its center.

“Is the Night gang bankrupt?” Nesta broke the silence. “Can’t they afford both a spy and a courier?”

“He’s sending a message,” Feyre replied, dread blooming in her gut.

“You don’t say.”

Elain giggled, the Suriel snorted, and Feyre cracked a dry smile at her unintentional pun.

“How long has Azriel known you’ve been working for me?” she asked as she perused the envelope, inspecting it from all angles and trying to discern what’s inside it by exposing it to the light.

“I’m not sure.”

“How professional of you,” Nesta remarked coolly.

The Suriel bristled. “Spies don’t exactly hang out and trade work anecdotes after hours.”

Feyre needed to know how Azriel had obtained such information, but at the moment she could only focus on the envelope in her hands.

She threw caution to the wind and sliced through it with her butter knife. A pretty little piece of black parchment fell neatly on her plate.

“To Feyre Archeron, the boss of the Archeron gang,” she read aloud. “Your hosting skills are rumored to be so great they have pleased the unpleasable Beron Vanserra and his much esteemed Autumn gang. That is why we humbly request your assistance, as we too would like them to have a pleasant Monday evening at our headquarters.”

There was a beat of expectant silence before the Suriel asked hesitantly, “That’s it?” 

Feyre nodded, restoring it into its envelope and shoving it in her pocket.

Nesta’s shrewd gaze was trained on her. “So, what now?”

“We respond to our dear neighbors’ cry for help,” she smirked, hoping against all odds her face was not as red as it felt.

For at the end of the note was scribbled in tiny, hurried writing: I trust you will come, Feyre darling. Pluck the arrows out of my wings, and send me flying.

The prick was playing dirty.

And she had never been immune to the thrill of the game.


End file.
